


To be loved

by Strange_johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Any season, Background Case, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, John Watson is a Saint, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Marriage Proposal, No Mary Morstan, No Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Promise, Romance, Rough Sex, She'll be back in the next one, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is counting his blessings, Smut, Soo much tenderness, Sussex lovelyness, Tender Sex, Tenderness, This is basically Sherlock bragging about how amazingcuteperfect his boyfriend is, sherlock is a secret romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22697185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve.Or:Sherlock is counting his blessings
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 147
Kudos: 377
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. Distraction Part I

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Amelia for beat reading and dealing with my WhatsApp messages<3
> 
> As always, English is my second language so bear with me😊

A body was found chained to the bottom of the Thames over two months after the death and only my research – prompted by the husband stumbling into 221B three days ago- had made it possible to retain it. Now, said husband had become the main suspect, spouses always are, until the Metropolitan Police start listening to me, and as they are idiots, they only do that when I present the proof on a silver plate, make it obvious even to the smallest of minds.

So, for the past half an hour, I’ve been looking at a piece of cloth taken from her blouse, to prove her last hours had been spent at her office. With her boss.

As much as I was typically able to focus on my work and shut out what went on around me, I could not fail to notice John approaching. He likes being around as I work, making tea, reading the newspaper, and has become adept at being quiet enough so I won’t yell at him to stop breathing. Over the years, he has evolved into becoming background noise, just as the traffic of London or the patter of rain, something that I miss when it isn’t there. It’s good to have John around when I need to shut out the world, I never feel unsafe when he is there and readily able to react to any outside threats. Also, I do happen to like John, which he is very aware of and constantly serves as his main argument when I do shout at him to leave. 

As it is, John isn’t doing much at the moment, just standing there and staring at me, as he dries off his damp hands on his jeans - thank god he doesn’t care for fashion, it would be grave bodily harm to any kind of suit trouser to be misused as a towel. 

He stops in his steps where the hallway opens up to the kitchen and I hold myself back from looking up at him. I know he’s wearing that blue jumper and checked button-down shirt underneath, looking all unassuming and middle-aged. I still suspect a trick behind that, that somehow he will reveal himself to be the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Taking a breath, I refocus on adjusting my microscope.

The silk turns into threads and the spot on it into particles as I zoom in, revealing the beauty of the small – another metaphor that can be transferred to John, even though he would call me a git for it- I should lose myself in my work, instead I find myself glancing up just a minute later, John now standing by the open fridge trying to figure out what in it is edible. He does so by resting an arm at the door, just an inch above his head, skimming the shelves one by one and pulling a few of the plastic containers out, peaking in. Even I, observant as I am, have not figured out yet which criteria he uses for that as there is no particular pattern to what he does. It fascinates me endlessly to watch him.

He apparently has come to a conclusion, he sets three containers down on the kitchen counter before closing the fridge again. I can follow his every movement, as he prepares his meal, his back is turned to me and I fight an urge to get up and wrap myself around him, nose pressed to the spot behind his ear. He would smile, and I would only be able to feel those minute muscles move. He is beautiful like that, smiling that little smile.

It should be scary, knowing how easily I would abandon The Work for him, just to get our bodies in contact.

John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve.

He is also the thing that keeps me connected to the real world. There are times, when my need for stimulation and the lack of stimuli threatens to drive me insane, something I have never been good at dealing with. Since meeting my John, I have never had a lack of things to fascinate me, and if I fall into that pit he is there to take me on a walk, or hold me, and make me tea that I won’t drink. He does that, without it being a burden to him or dampening his smile.

My John is magnificent, and I notice that most in those moments of quiet, when he makes dinner in our kitchen in practiced moves. He’d never know. Maybe, I will tell him someday. He’d think it romantic, and there is surely going to be a moment where I annoy him and have to make up for it. 

I have to cut the thought short as he is about to turn, and I don’t want to be caught staring. Before we started dating I often used to watch him, pretending to look at something under my microscope, blind to the affection he already had for me then, and would wonder what the top of his head would smell like, among other, less innocent thoughts. I remember that with a smile, which I hope he misses, thinking that I have eyes for nothing but the case right now.

I wonder, if he sometimes feels alone in moments like this, when I am physically there but my mind is occupied with murder, or if he sees this as a break from who must be the world’s most demanding boyfriend and that leaves my mind so distracted I can’t seem to retain my focus.

“It’s a bit mean.” John says, and a person less trained at hiding their reactions might have jumped at how suddenly he speaks. Instead, I can redirect that surprise into a seemingly uninterested hum. He is behind me, having moved without my notice and I close my eyes when he presses three quick kisses to the nape of my neck. “How you look so beautiful in moments where me getting all hot and bothered over you is completely inappropriate.”

“We have been in less appropriate situations, John.” I say, changing the slides unnecessarily.

I hear the tiny step forward, as he presses his chest fully against my back, arms adjusting to lay on my hips where they bend on the stool and the buttons of his shirt tangible through his jumper and my shirt, as he nuzzles at my neck, lips wet from when he has kissed them prior.

He smells of the lavender hand soap and the new laundry detergent he bought a few days ago, he’s warm and it is an instinct to melt against him. I hold back, closing my eyes for a moment, before my focus returns to the particles under my microscope. They look familiar, and I adjust the slide with my right hand.

“True. Still, I’m keeping you from your work.” He noticed, then, and suddenly I no longer wish to spend an afternoon looking at a piece of cloth. How clever he is, my John.

“I’ll have to pick up a few things at Tesco’s anyway.” A lie, he went there this morning, and his shopping lists are always on point. He is giving me space to work, taking away any distraction and his consideration fills me with so much love for my John, the man whom I have made believe that I was dead for two years, leading him into the arms of a woman who broke his heart further by letting him believe her daughter was his for too long. Still, he is so kind to me, so loving, and I want to drop to my knees and ask him to marry me right now. The thought is surprising, but I can’t find it in me to regret it. I will have to revisit it in future when I am not surrounded by his smell and warmth.

“Bring back some ears, will you?” I say, just to hear him chuckle against my skin.

“I don’t think they have those at Tesco’s. But I’ll ask.” He kisses me one more time, before I hear him getting to the door, slipping into his shoes. The sound of his footsteps descends down the stairs and is swallowed by the London traffic, before the front door is fully shut.

I catch myself listening for a few more moments, before I finally find the focus to continue working.

It is simple in the end. The particles are tobacco ash, and the victim’s boss is the only one who smokes a pipe. Even Lestrade and his team of idiots can see the evidence in that. I text him, tell him to confiscate the pipe and let Anderson do a comparison.

Something so simple, and yet it took me almost two hours to solve it. My lovely John realising he was a distraction with his puttering around, leaving me to myself when I needed it, I haven’t deserved his understanding at all.

When John returns from the shops, I have relocated to the sofa. He comes in, footsteps only barely heavier than when he left, stops briefly at the door, then walks up to the kitchen. I can hear him putting away a few things, before the sound of chopping something from earlier continues. He left his half-finished supper to give me space, this wonderful, considerate man. I don’t move, listen to him, and think about how happy he makes me.

John sets a plate on the living room table- he still gets me to eat about forty percent of what he makes, then lifts my legs up and rearranges them and starts eating. I haven’t moved yet, and he must think I am still busy with the case. It’s mean to keep on pretending that I am, but the thought of marriage still has a hold on me. When it comes to John, I am not a man of quick decisions, my confidence when it comes to relationships is nil and I don’t want to scare him away by wanting too much, too soon.

There is so much knowledge I have to acquire first, research to be done, and I can’t wait for John to go to work tomorrow so I can start.

I wait for the sound of his plate against the desk, before I sit up and flop down again, face pressed into his lap. He smells of the cold air outside, still, of the food he had and of John-ness, which is my favourite. He makes one of those small sounds that is partly surprise and laughter, then his hand in my hair.

“Case solved, then, darling?”

I nod. “Ash.” I say, and he accepts that nothing follows that, just switches on the TV after a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Valentine's day tomorrow, so I'm dependent on kind words from strangers😂


	2. Distraction Part II

There are moments – and my wonderful John knows- when a distraction is exactly what I need, days where nothing can save me from my own mind. There hasn’t been a case in almost a week, and the body in the Thames was barely a five, not worth remembering at all. Secondly- and it might be worse- I woke up alone this morning, John already off to work.

Bad days become more bearable when they start off with John lips against my temple. The thought that he did kiss me when I was still asleep brings a smile to my face, even as my hands touch the pillow long gone cold. I know that today is going to be difficult. My mind goes from groggy to buzzing within minutes. Our bed is too warm suddenly, and I stumble to the living room.

My first stop is John’s laptop. Password: Shergetoffmypc. I check my email, but the most interesting thing is a missing parrot.

Dull.

I need input.

I am bored, horribly so, and John has hidden my gun. I presume he handed it to Mrs. Hudson for safekeeping. She is very protective of her walls so there is no chance I can get it from her, it’s only a short distraction anyway.

Drugs are no option either, not if I want to keep John and I want that more than anything. Now my brain is overwhelmed by the lack of input. I want to tear my skin off to look at the veins underneath, tracking them, looking at them under my microscope.

There is nothing to crush, no explosive chemicals available and leaving the house is not an option right now. Wound up like this, I’m a ticking time bomb, a danger to others and myself, especially when faced with idiots.

I consider texting Lestrade but quickly remember he is on holiday – the idiot. The other DI’s don’t let me onto their crime scenes when I am agitated like this. As bad as today is ending up in a cell will worsen my mood.

I know all that, and still, I am almost at the point of trying.

I pace.

Dull.

Flop down on the sofa.

Dull. Dull. Dull.

Do normal people ever feel like this? Do they seek intellectual input to a point of madness, or can they just take a break and not think without the help of certain substances? They must. How else would they survive two weeks on the beach every year, shopping sprees and bank holidays? In moments like that I envy them for their little brains, happy to be filled with crap telly and nonsense books.

John is one of them. He likes crime novels, Doctor Who and has hinted at wanting to go to Cornwall for a bit of hiking. The only person currently in my life who knows how I feel is Mycroft. He is clever, and on good days I can admit that he is cleverer than I am, especially in his choice of occupation. International conflicts are more common than intelligent criminals, he can keep himself busy. Still, he isn’t the one to know how to handle me.

That is John, small-brained, normal John Watson, lovely, marvellous John Watson.

He knows, as soon as he gets in the door, what mood I am in, sitting in my chair, feet up and head almost touching the floor. Even upside-down I can see he’s tired. He has been working a lot, something about sick colleagues and maternity leaves. He has circles under his eyes; his shoulders are a bit slumped down. I know he wants a hot shower and take-away. Instead, he puts his bag down, comes over to me.

“Bad day?” He says, tilting his head. He looks lovely from this angle, which should be impossible, and I am a little less bored just from looking at him. It takes me a little longer from down here to deduce every single one of his sixteen, no seventeen patients. Even he found them dull, and his tolerance for people exceeds mine by far.

I nod at his question, eyes on whichever part of John is closest as he kneels on the floor. His hands are cool, as he cups my face and lifts it just a bit to kiss me. Lovely.

“Up you get, darling.” He whispers. “We’re going for a walk.”

I should have suspected something like that. John Watson calms his own temper by walking angrily through the streets of London, does so frequently with a boyfriend like me.

“You’d rather not. You’re cold.”

“You need it.” Is all the answer I get, and he is back on his feet a moment later, reaching his hand out for me. I stop arguing against my own interest and heave myself up.

We sit down on one of the benches in Regent’s park. John sits close to me, hands in his pockets to warm them.

“Well, this is just as dull as the flat, just colder.” I mumble, and it is just to annoy him, when he is the one doing me good. Walking, our hands brushing between us from time to time, has already done me good, his plan working, and I thank him by being an arse. How is it that he still puts up with me?

“Thought that might help, you know? Freezing your brain might slow it down.” He grins, tilts his head and snuggles deeper into his coat.

“Ah,” I say, trying to hide how pleased I secretly pleased I am by any attempt of humour.

“Let’s play a game.” He says, and that gets my full attention.

“Which one?”

“Who am I?”

“Agreed.” We play that one frequently. I give him deductions, and he has to guess who they belong to, and be quick, as people are coming and going. He is horribly bad at it, and a constant source of my amusement.

“Single, wants kids, has two large dogs instead.”

He leans forward, forehead forming that lovely line as he considers the passers-by, making their way home or enjoying a run.

“Woman over there in the blue coat.” John says, loud in his conviction.

“Thank God you’re beautiful.” I turn my coat collar up against the wind that is just starting up. He chuckles at that. “I don’t even want to know how you come to such horrid conclusions. Also, it is a bit sexist to presume that only women feel the urge to procreate.”

“She just looked sad.”

“She’s tired, because she has at least one small child at home. She hasn’t slept properly in months.” 

“Oh, well, she might regret wanting children, then.”

“She might.”

“Who is it then?”

“Oh, he’s long gone. Needs to get back to his dogs before they get bored.”

I reach out and slip my hand into his coat pocket. It is nice and warm in there, his fingers slightly damp, and I interlace them with my own. I would enjoy people making their own deductions about us and realising he belongs to me. Idiots that they are, they would need something obvious to see. I wonder what kind of ring would fit my John. Something simple but special at the same time. Gold fits his skin tone better. It is more traditional, too. He likes that sort of thing.

We play another four rounds of our little game, but I am concerned with another thought, my boredom melting away, as I go through all the wedding rings I can remember, most of them on the hands of dead bodies. I doubt John would mind.

We return home before John turns into an icicle, and he makes me wait in front of his favourite book shop for five minutes. I hate waiting, but my John has been so lovely to me, he deserves to buy himself another horrid novel. I busy myself by comparing all the possible routes to take to Baker Street from here, wondering if John would be up for fire escapes today.

Probably not.

Pity.

He returns with a smile and a paper bag, fits his hand into mine and I’m happy to walk the detour he chooses, just for the feel of his palm against mine.

“I got something for you.” John says, when we turn onto Baker Street, lifting the back for emphasis and he has me surprised.

“Oh?”

“Yep. To keep your mind occupied a bit. You can read it today, or the next time you feel like this, and I'm not there for some reason.” He turns to me as far as the busy pathway allows it, cheeks pink with the cold. “ You know, you can always call me.”

I squeeze his hand, gaze fixed on the street beyond. It is overwhelming, sometimes, to be loved.

“You would yell at me and tell me how important your work as a general physician is.” I escape the situation with an attempt of humour, and he catches on.

“Oh, I will.” John steps towards the front door and unlocks it. As soon as it closes behind us, his arms are around me. “Still, I want you to call me when you need to, okay? Maybe just not about… missing socks or stuff like that.” He is still smiling; I can feel it against my neck.

I nod and close my eyes against the sting of tears. He is so good to me, my John.

We make it up the stairs and onto the sofa, my head resting on his chest, he reaches out and hands me the paper back.

“What is it?”

“A book.” He grins, drops a kiss to the top of my head. I love those. They make up for his horrid sense of humour. “It’s about a cold case. Nineteen-twenties, an entire family murdered in Bavaria, Germany. Not even trying to pronounce the name of the village.”

John unwraps the book for me, and I reach out to skim through the pages. “Neither am I.” I say, agreeing. “Mein Deutsch ist nicht besonders gut.“

„Show-off.“ John rests his hand on my hip. “It’s been unsolved for almost a hundred years now, darling. Might be something you can come back to when no criminal has the courtesy to murder someone for a while.”

“They are being very rude lately.”

“Agreed.”

“Very gemein.”

“Is that the only german word you remember?”

“Ja.”

We both giggle. From the first evening we spent together, sharing laughter with John has been my favourite thing, especially when I can feel him move against me, his giggles rippling through my body.

“Thank you.” I say, as the laughter fades out, lips still curled up in a smile, and he tilts my head up with his index finger against my chin to kiss me.

I almost consider staying where I am when Lestrade calls about an abduction case. Instead, we both leap to our feet and dash out into the streets of London.

*Mein Deutsch ist nicht besonders gut= my German is not that good

*gemein= mean

*Ja= yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are wondering, the cold case took place in Hinterkaifeck near Ingolstadt in Bavaria, Germany. An man, his wife, daughter, two grandchildren and a member of staff were slaughtered in their isolated farm house. There were many suspects but the mixture of affairs, insenst and the chaos after the first World War made solving it impossible. 
> 
> I don't live too far away and the case has fascinated me for years. I'd be happy to chat about it, if you are interested.


	3. Touch Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are upload schedules? :DDD
> 
> Btw, the chapters always come in two parts :P

I am very good at finding the tiniest pieces that solve a case, that fit every detail together perfectly, until the murderer is arrested, the child is found, the jewellery given back to the rightful owner. I’m not helping them out of the goodness of my heart- though with John, that side of my work has gained more prominence- but for myself. I love the game, always have, even though it has brought me to the brink of exhaustion more than once, kept me from eating and sleeping, driven me close to self-destruction. Now is one of those moments, where I feel close to insanity.

Words can be on the tip of our tongues, almost there but unreachable. The solution to a case can be obvious but locked away behind a door in my mind palace with me unable to find the key that fits.

I know everything, have asked all the questions. John asked them again, kinder, and we got the answers eventually. The Met has given us access to everything they found out in the two hours they let slip in their conviction that they could do this without us. We had a look at the car, and I texted Mycroft about CCTV off the parking lot.

All we know is that the little girl had been picked up by the nanny, they stopped at Tesco’s and when the groceries were finally packed into the boot, the girl was missing from where the nanny had strapped her into her car seat only minutes prior. The nanny searched the area with the help of some of the other customers and staff. They have all been questioned, as have the first responding officers arriving at the scene.

It appears, Leandra has just disappeared out of thin air. I’m missing something. I hate that. 

Finding her is made almost impossible by the parents of the girl we are trying to save. The mother- late thirties, managing position in a bank, keeping her smoking habit a secret from her partner- paces from one corner to the other, like a trapped tiger. The sound of her shoes on the tiles gives the drum that gives the beat to her husband’s crying. Like a child wanting attention, Mr. Sampson, wails and flings his arms, and his wife stops from time to time to shout at him to shut up.

I am close to jumping out of the window. Don’t they realise that bringing their daughter back is all that matters and that what they’re doing won’t help at all? Instead they’re distracting the only person who can find her kidnapper and bring her back.

I want to shout at them, and the fact I don’t has nothing to do with me not wanting to be rude. I don’t care about niceties if they don’t have an effect on the results.

I don’t shout, because I have the details of this abduction laid out in front of me and wanting to fit them together takes all my concentration. There is something I am missing, something crucial, and it is right there.

At the tip of my tongue.

Unreachable.

Grasping for focus, I reach into my hair, pull at it hard, where I bend over in the chair.

Quiet. I need quiet.

John, who has been standing by the window, takes a step towards me. He looks tired, hasn’t had a break since returning from the surgery. He’s had a rough week but still insisted on joining me. His hair is wonderfully ruffled, which I avoided pointing out in fear he might slip off to the loo and fix it, and I know he craves a coffee. He is also affected by the Sampsons’s emotional outbursts yet can understand how they are feeling far better than I can, empathy being one of his many skills. He is worried about me, too hates it when I hurt myself, even when it’s something as harmless as pulling my hair.

From the corner of my eyes, I can see him lifting his hand, to rest against my shoulder. He wants to comfort me, knowing my distress. I know what it feels like, know where each fingertip will rest, the pace in which he will brush his thumb back and forth, the pressure with which he will squeeze. He is very consistent in things like this.

It is obvious to me, then, that I can’t have him touch me when I am at the brink of finding that little girl. I can’t have him touch me even if he means well. His touch will just add fire to the fuel. When I am tense like this I can’t deal with having to process the temperature and feel of his palm through the fabric of my shirt.

I can’t have him touch me, now.

Maybe it’s my facial expression, or maybe he just knows. 

John lets his hand drop in the middle of the movement, rests it on the side of his body, where in balls into a fist. He looks sad for a moment, tips his head, and I feel bad for not letting him comfort me.

John recovers quickly, and the smile he gives me is earnest.

I am grateful.

My eyes follow him, as he places his hand on the father’s shoulder instead.

“I understand your pain, Mr. and Mrs. Sampson. But I can’t have you two distracting Sherlock, right now.” Oh, the Captain Watson voice. Calm and strict. “Let’s give him some peace and quiet, yeah? Show me the garden again?”

I close my eyes, as he ushers them out of the door. They don’t argue, not with him.

The door clicks shut.

I breathe.

Open my eyes.

I am back in full force.

Thank god for John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's said that the fandom is slowly dying- and who could blame people for loosing their patience. Sometimes, I think so too, and I wonder why I keep obsessing over those two idiots. But after only posting two chapters of this story, I have gotten so many comments and kind words from you, who love their love as much as I do. Thank you so much, my lovely readers! <3 I believe in Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Touch Part II

There is paperwork. I hate paperwork more than anything. It is unnecessary, redundant. They would know everything if they only listened to me for once. Instead, they force me to sit in an office for hours and have me repeat it again and again until it’s typed up and ready to sign. They love their signatures. It makes them feel competent in at least one part of their job.

I hate it. It is terribly dull and there are other things I would prefer doing after a successfully solved case where the girl was returned to her parents unharmed.

She got out of the car herself, to play with a puppy she spotted and when she realised, they were looking for her, she was scared of getting into trouble, and hid. There is no bad guy, and for once I am glad. No puzzle is worth a child being hurt, even I know that.

John tries his best to be nice to Dimmock, and it is his calm that makes me refrain from yelling at the DI to finally get on with it. I’m tired, and he’s too slow in typing up what I am saying.

“Look, Dimmock.” John finally says. “We’ve been through this two times. I haven’t had anything to eat since I got off the surgery. So, if that’s it, we’re going home.” He smiles, politely, and gets up. Nothing about him requires an answer from DI Dimmock, who is clever enough to just nod and wish us a good evening.

I follow John Watson out of the door, my signature neatly placed on the dotted line and his sass has improved my mood immensely. I will need to give something back to him with all he has done for me today. He’s easy to please, a simple man when it comes to certain things. Also, Oral Sex makes him fall asleep quickly after. He needs sleep, and I want to taste him badly. The thought makes my mouth water and gives me even more reason to leave Dimmock’s office quickly.

We walk next to each other towards the elevator, my mind thoroughly distracted, when I hear the whisper. They are speaking quietly, but with the intent of me hearing it and I hate how my shoulders tense.

“Freak.”

I have been called worse throughout the years. This is the one that hurts. It gets under my skin, under the armour that I call ‘high functioning sociopath’ and I fight the instinct to slump my shoulders, make myself small and escape their view.

They called me a freak when I started school for being too quiet and when I started talking, they called me freak for the things I said. Freak accompanied me through uni and in my darkest days, not hearing it for a few years was the only good thing.

Donavan was the first to choose that word again when I consulted Lestrade on our third murder case. She has used it multiple times now, not knowing how it affects me. I’m glad of that. She would use it against me if she did.

John hears it too, as much as I hope he wouldn’t. I don’t need pity, not even from John. Broad shoulders tense, and in the corner of my eye I can see that lovely mouth pull into an angry frown. John is one of the few men I know who gets more attractive as their temper rises, anger darkening his eyes, chest puffing out. He is going to defend me- I’m not a damsel in distress, could easily bring them to tears with my deductions. They would be embarrassed, hurt even, and think me more of a freak than before. John has defended me before, the first time being the day after we met, perfect strangers still.

He’s not going to shoot the blond police officer, of course. He is going to turn to her, smile his dangerous smile- more threatening than looking down the barrel of a gun- making her knees weak with fear and mine with arousal.

They would deserve that, getting the Captain Watson treatment, and I would feel better after it, if a little embarrassed about having him fight my fights- aren’t human emotions silly?

With a bit of anticipation – which is very much preferable to the hurt I have felt moments ago- I wait for John to stop walking, to turn around to them slowly enough for a dramatic effect and start his lecture off with his left hand clenched into a fist and head tilted a bit. An extra bonus would be a lick lip. Oh, please, let him lick his lips.

John surprises me, for what must be the dozenth time in just a few weeks. He does nothing of what I predicted. He is angry, yes, but doesn’t act out on it in any way. Instead, his gesture is tender enough to make my cheeks redden.

John Watson slips his hand in mine.

We are not a very affectionate couple when it comes to public places, and yet this is the second time today our fingers interlace. We never do that, here, at work. Most of the police officers don’t even know we are dating.

This means a lot, not only sends a message to them but to me.

I’m with you.

The are wrong.

Even if you were a freak, you are my freak.

I'll still punch anyone who deserves it. 

Even though I don’t care for their reaction anymore, my brain registers the surprised gasp from one of the by-standers, badly covered up with a cough, and the blonde mutters a “fuck me.” I consider turning around and giving him my best “nope”, popping the p. Instead, I move my head just enough to look at my John.

I couldn’t stop the smile if I tried, and he smiles back, the anger gone as soon as it came. With such a small gesture John Watson can change my life, small steps at a time.

I squeeze his fingers and pull him to the lift. His hand is still in mine, when the doors close behind us, shutting everybody else out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This leaves Adrenaline Part I and II, and Words Part I and II. Any guesses, what they could be about?


	5. Adrenaline Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *explicit*   
> Let the smut begin :P

There is surely a conversation going on at the yard about what we are going to do when we get home, and surely, some of them imagine adrenaline-fuelled post-case sex. It’s idiotic, as hours of paperwork do their best to make any excitement die down. Even without it, we rarely have sex after a case as they mean days of little sleep and food, and it tends to catch up with us by the time we stumble back into 221.

What we do instead is call in for take-away, picking it up on the way. John digs into it like a starving man, and I offer to do the dishes afterwards, just a small attempt to make up for how much he has done for me today.

I can never fully pay him back it seems, when I bring it up though, John calls the notion ridiculous. “You saved my life,” he says. “When you asked… decided, rather, to be roommates, you saved my life.” 

By the time I’m done, he is asleep on the sofa, mouth hanging slightly open and head slumped against the headboard. The TV is blabbering in the background, and he surely wanted to watch the news- not that there is anything on that Mycroft couldn’t tell him first-hand. He is beautiful in the dim light, with his two-day stubble and the positions creating multiple chins. John’s hair is glowing in the dim light, waiting to be ruffled. I consider curling out around him or sitting next to him to watch for a bit as he snores on, but my own tiredness is catching up with me.

So, leaning over him, I press a series of kisses to kiss cheek and the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go to bed, John,” I murmur, following the same pattern with my nose. He is warm and his cheeks are a bit scratchy.

He opens his eyes, rubs at them with his left palm, and yawns. I steal a few curry-flavoured kisses- lovely. “Think you could carry me? No, no, don’t try. Didn’t end well when you tried last time.” He grins up at me.” I slide off his lap and pull him up with me.

We hold hands on our way to the bedroom – wonderful- and go through our night routine as quickly as we can. Our clothes are left as a heap on the bedroom floor, and we only bother with pyjama bottoms before settling under the duvet, his head on my chest for a change.

“Good night, love.” He says, as I reach out to switch off the light on the nightstand.

“Good night, John.”

“Love you.” His eyes are closed, and I lean down to kiss his forehead. He always tells me, before he goes to sleep- it’s not often that we fall asleep together- maybe he doesn’t want me to forget while I spend the night in the silent flat. Even when we fight he always does.

“I love you, too.” I whisper against the spot I just kissed, and I feel his smile against my collar bone. My lovely John. I should say it back more often, just to see him smile. I consider asking him if it bothers him that I don’t always do, distracted by an experiment or lost in thought, but John is back asleep quicker than I would have thought possible, and as I listen to him breathe, my brain slowly shuts off and lets me rest.

I am woken by John crawling back to bed, his feet cold against mine. “Sorry, got the bladder of an old man.” He whispers, and his face is a bit cold to when he presses it to my neck. His lips are lovely and warm, grazing over my skin in wet trails.

“Do you want me to comment on that?” I say, eyes slowly getting used to the dark in our room and I’m more awake than I should be at two in the morning. I know what those kisses mean, what they can lead to. John is testing the waters, he will slowly kiss down to my collar bone, ask for permission.

He chuckles at my question, and I can feel it vibrate against my chest. “Not really, no.” He tilts his head to nip at my lower lip. “Rather have you shut up for a bit.” 

And shut me up he does, with his kisses and then his mouth all over my body. It’s slow, and tender, the both of us warm under the duvet, our bodies pressed together, moving, pressing, rubbing. It is animalistic in a sense, our cocks trapped in our pyjama bottoms as we seek out pressure in the movement of the other. But mostly, it is tender, the way we hold each other closer, tease with every slow thrust that is wonderful and not quite enough yet. 

John is hot above me, holding his weight up on his knees and forearms, which frame my face, and he kisses me everywhere he can reach, his lips wet and warm and my eyes close without my wanting them to.

I touch him back, my hands roaming his back and deeper, always teasing him by ignoring the part where he wants them to squeeze and pull apart and press in. I know John’s body better than my own. I know what he likes, and still discover more with every encounter we have, tiny nuances that depend on categories such as the time of day, his mood and where we are having sex. It is all stored away, for me to analyse. Not while we are at it, as he manages to thoroughly distract me, but to re-watch at a later time. I am still a scientist, even with regular sexual intercourse added to my list of anticipated activities. I can’t help but remember every detail, and I never delete sex with John. So, I use the data to both our advantages.

“God, Sher.” John’s voice is quiet in the dark room, not much louder than the sounds our bodies make as we rub and slide against each other, deliciously slow at first, but growing faster, until it is too much to take. It is John, who tugs our pyjama bottoms down and presses our warm, wet cocks together. Our rhythm is far from adrenaline-fuelled, but we grow desperate, open mouths resting against each other in the attempt of a kiss, as he tugs at us.

His erection, hot against my own, wet with our mingled precum, the squeeze of his hand, make my insides coil and then release in a powerfully, intense orgasm, and I barely notice calling John’s name as I arch my back and give in to my bodies demands. My brain goes from tired to wonderfully sated and I reach down to get my John into the same state. Together, we find a rhythm that tips him over the edge.

My John makes lovely sounds, and this is my favourite, just shortly behind his giggle. I kiss him, as he comes, to swallow it, make it my own, and then I hold him to my chest until we fall asleep, sticky and sated and in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last 3 Chapters might take a while, because my beta reader has a life :P   
> Hope you all had a great weekend


	6. Adrenaline Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *explicit*

John looks very attractive today- he always looks appealing, but sometimes there are days when I just can’t take my eyes off him. His hair is still a bit wet from his shower and he is wearing his reading glasses. Contrary to his beliefs, they do not make him look older, just a bit more interesting. The dark, very modern frames that I recommended to him fit perfectly- he surely would have picked horrid old-man’s glasses if I let him choose them on his own.

John is focused on the book he is holding in his hand – horrid crime novel- and I use that to take in every detail about him, from the obvious things – he’s not getting dressed today, picked jogging trousers and an old shirt to wear after his shower- to the smallest – the way his mouth is reflecting every new aspect of the story by twitching in the tiniest movements. He is an open book, my John. I could guess the entire plot of that book just from his expression, but I am distracted today.

Oh, that lip lick was completely unnecessary. He’s just teasing me, now. Leaning back on the sofa gives me a better few, and a chance to spread my legs a bit, give room to my cock, which is getting more and more interested, fuelled by the images my brain supplies. It’s rare that I get aroused from looking alone. It’s usually John who initiates sex, teasing me with small touches and filthy, lovely words until I catch fire – he is very understanding for the times I don’t. John is the only sexual partner I have ever had- or will have- and I am glad he takes the lead most of the time. But now, my John is distracted, and he might enjoy getting surprised. I’m certain I would.

But how?

What seems so natural to my partner, boyfriend, lover- husband will make this so much easier- requires a lot of thought on my part. There are scenarios to go through, to find the perfect one to both make my intentions clear and elicit arousal in John. Before I can get lost in thought, my attention is caught by movement from the other end of the room.

John has lowered his book, midnight blue eyes focused on me and the surprise on his face turns into realisation. I must be very obvious, even to an unobservant man like John- he has other qualities, as previously described. I expect him to comment, say something clever and a bit naughty, instead he just raises an eyebrow, simultaneously letting his legs fall open.

I suppress a moan. My cock is less polite, twitching in anticipation and I reach down to squeeze it- just a bit- through the fabric of my trousers. The pressure provides some relief but makes it worse all the same.

I can’t wait anymore, can’t make plans, not when he has so clearly invited me. Disregarding both the kitchen table and a stack of books next to it, I take four large strides to move over, ending up between his strong thighs.

“Well, hello there beautiful.” John acts surprised when he looks up and I reach down to take the book from his hands. Neither of us care much about the sound it makes as it falls to the floor, gazes locked, mouths coming closer and closer together. I can almost taste his lips, warm breath laden with the promise of warm, deep, slow kisses, the flick of his clever tongue It takes all my willpower to pull back, just before our mouths brush against each other. It’s just a heat of the moment decision, to tease him a bit, deprive us both just a little more. The groan of frustration I get is worth not being kissed. I straighten, look down at him and turn towards the bedroom with one last look over my shoulder.

John’s looks… hungry. Isn’t it astonishing that I can have this effect on a man like John Watson? Don't be mistaken, I am confident in my looks, a little vain even. As part of my work I have used the effects my transport has on people, know how to move to get their eyes to follow me. With John, it’s different- it's more. John knows me on my good, flirtatious days just as well as on those when I am unbearably difficult. I don’t think love is something to be deserved- that is not something one can apply to chemical processes in the brain- but I am still lucky to have John Watson love me, want me.

And he wants me right now. The groan that leaves his throat sends sudden shivers down my spine. Adrenaline is filling my veins. The chase is on and I am a willing prey to his touches.

He has to work for it first, as I escape down our narrow hallway and into the bedroom. I can hear him get up, hear the creek of his chair. He’s coming for me, coming to take me apart. I don’t want him to be soft, now, or careful. I want him to take me apart, to be rough and give me all he can.

I wait for him with my back turned and if it seems that I am calm on the outside, that is not a reflection of how I truly feel. The anticipation is driving me insane, I want his hands on me, but then I can’t regret having teased him. It changed the mood, from being a bit horny to a desperate need for him.

John doesn’t disappoint, entering the room a moment later. The sound of his steps is different from usual, and I blame it on my own state that it takes me a bit of thinking to realise why that is- what he is making room for.

“God, you tease.” Is the first thing he says, and the warmth of his breath is seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt, as he steps behind me. “You got me all hard, did you know that?” Fingertips dip under the hem of my pyjama top and he presses against me to emphasise what he has just mumbled against my shoulder.

“John.” I respond, and I hope that he can sense from the tone of my voice that what I want to say is too complex to express in words. “John,” I say again, as he pulls my shirt up and I help to get it over my head and to the floor.

His lips leave trails of goose flesh behind, and I tip my head back, press into their touch. “The way you walked away…,” John interrupts himself by nipping at my shoulder blade, his hands in a constant movement over my belly and chest, broad and warm. “You swaying your hips like that, god, your arse….” Fingers skim to my sides and slip under the waistband of my pyjama bottoms, pulling them down just a bit.

I moan, as he grabs two hands full, squeezes, pulls me apart, before I was undecided on what I wanted with this particular encounter, now I feel the urgent need to have him inside me.

“You used to do that when we weren’t… drove me insane.” He squeezes again, in emphasis, then pulls my trousers down so I can kick them off. “I used to imagine following you to your room, shoving you onto the bed…”

I can barely catch my weight on my elbows, as my body collides with the mattress. John is over me in an instant, lips returning to their place against my spine. “I never thought you’d want me to.” There is a spark of emotion in that, sadness, and I reach out to take his hand on the duvet.

“Should have elevated my swaying, then.” I say, hoping the humour will help. It does, John’s chuckle vibrating through my body.

“You should have.” He grins, and I feel him move back into a standing position. The rustle of fabric tells me what he is doing, and I turn my head to watch him undress, revealing more and more skin.

John is beautiful, slightly tanned skin dusted with golden hair; chest broad and belly covered with a small layer of fat that is wonderful to rest my head on, on one of those rainy days. His thighs are strong from all the running we do. His cock is thick and wonderfully curved, bobs slightly with every movement. I lick my lips at the sight, and he smirks, when he catches me.

“See anything you like?” He asks, and there is something predatory in his eyes, the hunter getting ready to attack. I am waiting, unmoving, at his mercy. 

“Yes, very much.” I say, and then softer. “Come here?”

John is back on top of me just a moment later, holding his weight up on his elbows and for the first time since we started this, he kisses me. The kiss lacks finesse due to the position and our desperate need for each other. John moves against me, cock rubbing against the small of my back, tip warm and wet.

“Now who’s teasing?”

“Impatient prat.” He says, but there is fondness in his voice, and his hand slips from where I am holding it to where I want it. John presses a finger into me, making me moan, then two. He knows I like it rough, like the pain of the stretch.

Reaching out into the gap between our mattress, I reach out for the bottle of lube hidden there. He takes it from me, and a moment later I feel the cold gel against my rim. It is worked into me with every movement of John’s fingers into my body three now, fast and deep, and I don’t know whether to move against them, or grind my cock into the duvet, so I rock them back and forth, moaning John’s name.

“Please.” I beg, when I can’t take it anymore, I don’t want to spend another moment without his cock moving inside me. “I’m ready.”

John takes my word for it, pressing in one last time, before pulling back. I feel him move, feel the dip of the mattress as he readjusts his position. The click of the lube bottle, then John’s groan of relief gives him away, as he lubes himself up, and I scoot up on the bed a bit. 

Firm hands grab my hips and pull me back, drag me over the mattress and to the edge of the bed. I have nothing against John’s strength, not in this position - and by god, being manhandled adds another dimension to the thrill.

“Where do you think you’re going?” John rumbles into my ear, and I struggle to find a stance against the floor, as my legs hang off the bed.

There is no time for an answer, as the blunt tip of his cock presses against my opening. I can’t keep the pained noise from my throat, and John places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You’re doing so well.”

He pulls back anyway, grabs for more lube. Tries again. It’s better, this time, and I grab onto the sheets as he delivers his first few thrusts- just an inch or two, opening me up further, until I can take his entire length.

John bottoms out with a grunt, hand pulling my head back to kiss me. Those tender gestures, even when we are being a bit rough, ground me, and I stretch to meet him again, when he pulls back a bit.

“Okay?” I nod, get my kiss as a reward.

John erupts into movement a moment later, straightening up, and then he is fucking into me in fast thrusts, filling me over and over again, and the initial pain mixed with the pleasure of having him move inside me into a overwhelmingly good cocktail of sensations that could possibly drive me insane. John grabs my hips with one hand, the other reaches up to pull at my hair, and his movements makes the entire bed shake, the headboard rattling against the bedroom wall- silent compared to the noise our bodies make as they slap against each other over and over.

I wonder, for a short moment whether this is the sex people imagine us having after a case, rough and passionate, the thrill after the chase, but then John is widening his stance and the angle is perfect for hitting my sweet spot.

I curse when sparks of lust start deep in my body and spread into all extremities, adding to the arousal cursing through my veins.

“Ah,” John says knowingly and delivers three sharp thrusts that make me arch my back and I moan with pleasure.

Trying to keep my feet on the ground is getting uncomfortable, so I hook them around John’s shins instead. It allows me to move with him better, take what he is giving me, and as I slip deeper and deeper into the lust, I catch myself getting more and more vocal- best not to repeat the nonsense of my dopamine-fuelled brain- and John answers with moans and kisses to my back, whenever he can reach it.

Then, and I groan in frustration, John pulls back, slips out of me completely. A slap to my backside brings a certain degree of focus, still I need longer than I want to admit realising he wants me to turn around. I sit up, unable to resist a squeeze to my so far neglected cock, then turn to lie on my back.

“God, you are gorgeous.” John brushes my hair back from where it has been stuck to my forehead. “Want to see you face when I fill you up.” And only John Watson can say things that are romantic and filthy at the same time.

This time, I wrap my legs around his hips, and he pulls me off the mattress a bit, bum hanging in the air, as he teases me with long, deep movements that are not enough anymore, not when I am so close.

“Patience.” John chuckles, adjusting his grip so he can wrap a hand around my cock, and I let my own hand drop to make room. “I’m going to get us there.”

He doesn’t disappoint. Every movement makes me shudder, fills me, and I feel my testicles pull up against my body, my orgasm only moments away. Until now, I haven’t taken my eyes off John, his face pulled into tight lines, breath going heavy, but now my lids fall shut. He knows the signs, pulls at my cock in a faster rhythm.

I let go, my body erupting, back straining of the bed, as ropes and ropes of cum paint John’s hand. I barely am aware that John thrusts a few times more, before his seed spills warm inside me and he collapses on top of me.

"You lovely man." John says, lips ghosting over my chest. "god, you are perfect." His words make my belly flutter and I pull him close in an attempt to hold him tight. 

I stroke my fingers through his hair, as we both try to catch our breaths and wonder, if 11 am is an appropriate time for a post-coital nap, John still hot inside me, our bodies connected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a coincidence that the smuttiest chapter is the longest one🤔😜


	7. Words Part I

Over the past weeks- as he has done during the entirety of our friendship and relationship- John has been so good to me, he’s proven again and again how well he knows me in reacting to my moods and behaviours in ways that allow me to fully be myself. There is no greater gift than this, and of that I am very aware.

I admit the degree of selfishness in wanting to keep him by my side forever. For most of my twenties and early thirties, I was convinced I wouldn’t reach forty, that my life would be cut short by a violent death. With John by my side I dare to imagine retirement and quiet days in Sussex. I know he wants that too, wants to share a life with me even though it must be hard to keep up with me. The least I can do for my patient, loyal John is to make the proposal a moment that makes John happy, to create something special just for him.

It takes a few case-less days of planning, from choosing a ring to finding the perfect spot and the words to convey what I am feeling.

My first thought is to bring him back to a past crime scene or maybe even Barts hospital, where we met. But then I look at how tired he looks these days, the lack of sleep visible in the circles under his eyes. He hasn’t had a holiday in years- mostly because I find the thought horrid- and I am more than willing to get him away from London for a few days.

We take the train to Dover from London St. Pancras. I haven’t told him anything- he is used to me being mysterious-, and after a bit John has stopped asking, although he must assume that there’s another case. During the train ride, he looks out of the window, hand drumming on his thigh, and I pretend to be busy on my phone as I rehearse the speech I prepared. 

I’m strangely nervous and unable to predict John’s behaviour. Men like John Watson- if there are any like him- don’t get proposed to. They are the ones to ask their partner over a lovely glass of wine, with small smiles around their lips. John Watson is a giver and having him be on the receiving end of a grand romantic gesture will be something new to him.

I’m glad that he falls asleep on the bus ride with his head slumped against my shoulder so I can seek reassurance in his smell and the warmth of his breath against my neck, Lovely.

We have to walk another thirty minutes to the small holiday cottage. I make John carry my bag- being too nice would make him suspicious- and there is a bit of annoyance in his features. Great, that will make the surprise even sweeter.

“Okay, Sher, I get it. You’re not talking to me today. But can you at least promise me that you haven’t brought me to the end of the world to kill me?” John is taking two quick steps to keep up with me, and it is mostly humour in his voice.

“With all the people who saw us on the bus together? Not likely.” I respond, adjusting to his pace and reaching out a hand. Instead of handing me my bag, John interlaces our fingers, squeezes mine.

“Good.” He says, and lets me lead him down a gravel path. We have left the last of the houses behind, the smell of salt and the calls of the seagulls are a constant reminder of the ocean close by. There is no one else here, just us. Maybe a week here is what we both need.

The cottage reveals itself behind a group of trees and I pull John up the stone path towards it, searching for the key in my coat pocket and opening the front door. John steps in before me, and the awe on his face is evident as he takes in the modern interior, white furniture and tasteful decorations and just takes the time to drop our bags and his jacket, before he goes out to explore. He is drawn, immediately, to the glass front in the living room, allowing a view of the cliffs and the waves. It is slowly getting dark, clouds painted pink and gold by the setting sun, the light reflected on the water. The door clicks, as John opens it to step onto the terrace, and I follow behind him in the distance. The sight of John as he stands there takes my breath away.

He looks so small compared to the ocean, arms wrapped around himself against the cold, the fading light catches in his hair and makes his skin glow. He is beautiful, my strong, kind, lovely John, and when he turns his head to smile at me, his eyes clearly saying ‘come join me’, I take three large steps across to him, I press myself to his back and cover his arms with mine. He smells a bit of the ocean already, and I bury my nose in his hair.

“Thought you deserved a holiday.” I whisper, because it is an easy point to start with, and in reaction, he pulls me even closer.

“It’s lovely.” His voice is heavy with emotion. It is the last thing either of us says for a while as we stare into the distance at the sea and the darkening sky revealing a crescent moon just above us. The constant lap of the waves against the cliffs is calming, as is the rhythm of John’s breath and I let go of my plans, the reservation at the small restaurant and of the speech I so carefully prepared. John wouldn’t have liked the fuss, anyway, and this moment where it is just us and the powerful beauty of nature is perfect for what I want to do.

I loosen my right arm from his grip- which he protests, the stubborn man- to reach for the jewellery box in my pocket. Taking a deep breath, I pull his hand up to place the ring on his palm. Buying myself time, I kiss the side of his head.

John’s fingers wrap around the silver band, and he turns in my arms before I can say anything, pulling me against his chest, burying his face in the thin fabric of my shirt. He doesn’t say a word, just clings to me and I hold him tightly.

“You have to ask me first, you git.” Is the first thing he says, tilting his head up. His eyes are wet with tears, and I lean down to kiss his brow.

“I love you.” I say not very inventive, but true. “I want to spend my life with you, live in a place like this when we grow old.”

And this is it, I realise, the moment I stop being a git and ask him.

“John Hamish Watson…” He prods me with his elbow at the middle name, which makes us both chuckle. “Will you be my husband?”

There is a barely visible nod, as the first tears run down his cheeks, followed my multiple emphatic nods. John tries to speak, but the sound dies in his throat. I kiss him, and he tastes like salt.

“You have to say yes, you idiot.” I say, taking the ring out of his clenched fist.

“Yes.” He laughs. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

And that’s where I start crying with him- sentimental sod I am- which makes slipping the ring onto his finger a bit more difficult. We manage, together, and then he kisses me desperately.

I make love to him that night on the living room floor, in the light of the moon that makes his ring glow, and we don’t need many words in that either to know how much we are cherished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading and writing fan fiction has increased my use of the word 'lovely' by 100%


	8. Words Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22/2/2020 :P

We are doing it properly, on John’s insistence. The venue is booked, our invitations have long been sent out and I find myself standing in front of the bedroom mirror, adjusting my tie. Getting tailored suits was my condition for not just eloping. I haven’t seen his yet, but Mr. Stadham has promised me they will fit quite nicely together. I’ll take his word for it.

As I pull on the shirt sleeves again, I wonder how gorgeous my John will look in black. I very much want to see him in a three-piece suit, maybe a blue shirt to bring out his eyes. No matter, he is going to look gorgeous. He always does, even in his horrid jumpers.

I’m nervous again, even knowing he will be there at my side, smiling, licking his lips repeatedly. I know he will say ‘I do’. And I will say it back. Still, my fingers are shaking a bit as I comb them through my hair, which seems to be more unruly today than it usually is and it's driving me insane.

The sound of John’s steps echoes through the hallway, and I am surprised to hear them stop in front of the bedroom- we were doing things properly, even spending the night in different beds. There is a quiet knock and I turn towards the door.

“Love?” He calls.

“John. You said we are not allowed to see each other before the ceremony.” I remind him. “Is everything okay?” Instantly, my belly tightens with worry- I blame it on my nerves. This is an important day in our lives and if he has any doubt, then maybe it’s better I hear it now.

“Are you ready?” I look over at the bed and the suit jacket sprawled on it. There is a red rose on the revere, matching the burgundy lining and I know from trying it on that it fits like a glove.

“Almost.”

“Greg and I are leaving soon, and Mike is going to pick you up in about fifteen minutes.” I hear the thud of him leaning against the door and do the same. We stand back to back now, parted by about two inches of wood. “Just wanted to make sure you are alright.”

“I’m fine, John.” I say, then more honestly. “A bit nervous.”

John chuckles, and that lovely sound is already so helpful in calming me down – better than cigarettes.

“Me too.” He admits. “And that got me thinking, actually. I know you didn’t want to make our wedding this big thing. I’m happy you’re doing this for me, spending time with our family and friends. I can hear him resting his head against the door. “And then I wondered why I even insisted on all of them being there. I mean, Greg, Mike and Molly, those are the people we actually spend time with, but my sister…” He interrupts himself, remains quiet for a bit.

“What I want to say is that we both hate being all sentimental in front of others, and I know we will have to be, that’s just what people do on their wedding day, but there are some words I prepared and… I don’t think they should be heard by anyone but you.”

“John, are you ready?” Greg calls from the living room and John pulls back a bit.

“Give me a minute, mate. I got the bladder of an old man.”

“You are an old man.” The DI calls back. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

I hear greg on the stairs, then the front door shuts. We are alone in the house now. I wonder if I should just let him in, but even though I'm not very superstitious, I don’t want to risk anything on our wedding day.

“Would you like to hear them? My vows?”

Looking across the room, I catch my reflection in the mirror. There is a smile playing around my lips. My John is always to blame for that.

I nod, before I remember that he can’t see me.

“Yes, that would be… good.” Fantastic-perfect-lovely.

John clears his throat. “Well, I’ve written it all down, but I think I remember the main things so I’ll just...” I can imagine his mouth doing that complicated thing where he smiles but doesn’t. “Sherlock Holmes, you… you are a kind man. No, don’t laugh. You are. I know you hide it well from those who don’t know you like I do, and I portray you differently on my blog. But you are. Remember the old lady? You helped her look for her cat all afternoon, just because you like cats- and old ladies.” He chuckles at that.

“You are kind, and beautiful and when I come home, tired from work and you have a case, and you’re all excited about it, your enthusiasm for what you do… It takes all the tiredness away. To come home to you after you’ve spent all day in your mind palace and I get to hold you and just relax a bit.”

There is a warm feeling in my belly, I feel myself blush at his words. We are not usually men of many words when it comes to feelings. I haven’t said ‘I love you’ a lot – John says it more often- just because it seems inadequate to convey what I feel. But John is a poet when he wants to be, and I feel deeply touched by what he is saying.

“And when you drive me insane, when you set the kitchen on fire, or store toes in the fridge. You look at me surprised, as if you didn’t expect me to be angry and then I’m not anymore.”

I want to touch him, want to bury my face against his neck and take him in with all my senses. Instead, I turn a bit to rest my temple against the door.

“I love our life, Sherlock. I love that we get to have adventures and quiet nights, I love that you are a genius and I still get to take care of you as your friend and partner, and soon as you bloody husband. Can you believe it?”

“Well, all the evidence points towards our wedding being very real, John.” There is a moment of silence, as we both process John’s words, and when I reach up to touch my face, I realise it is wet with tears- thank god we are doing this in the privacy of our home and not in front of twenty people. How do I react, when I can’t lean over to kiss him? It would be awkward to thank him, wouldn’t it?

“Want to hear mine?” I say instead.

“Fuck, yes. God, sorry, shouldn’t swear that much should I?”

“You do, when you’re nervous.”

“I never noticed.”

“That’s why I’m the detective.”

“You should say something nice you know, It’s our wedding day.”

“Impatient.” I clear my throat.

“John, you are in all you do, a man of many contradictions. I thought you ordinary when I first saw you, but you turned out to be extraordinary in everything you do. Never before has anyone cared enough to get to know me like you do, and I am lucky to be loved by you.”

Looking down at my hands I realise that they will never be this bare again. In less than an hour, I am going to wear John’s ring as a constant reminder of his love, his loyalty.

“You know me so well that no matter what I do and how I feel you make me feel better. You turn bright days brighter and make dark days lighter with your presence. You know when you are a distraction, and when I need you to be one. You touch me and I feel alive, but you have learned that there are moments when you can’t. I am lucky, John, to love you. I am lucky, because I get to share my life with you. And I want that, want more adventures and chases around London, and when we get old I want to retire to the countryside and have you putter around in our little cottage while I tend to the bees. We are keeping bees, just so you know.”

My thoughts are running away with me, as they so often do, But I don’t try to stop them, not now. John deserves to know all that I feel for him. These words are his and I want him to have them.

“You will get back to writing, and I’ll convince you that we’ll need a dog, which you reluctantly agree to, snd in the end, you’ll be the one who allows our dog to sleep in our bed, at our feet, because you love him so much. Maybe our life will be completely different. Maybe we’ll stay in London and solve crimes until we're old. It doesn’t matter John, as long as I get to live my life by your side.”

I hear him sniff, even through the door, and that sound makes me sad and happy at the same time.

“I love you, John.”

“Love you too.” He says, and I know from the weight of his voice that he is close to tears. I really want to touch him. Instead, I listen to him get to his feet. I imagine him, lovely in his suit, looking down at his engagement ring.

“I’ll see you at our wedding ceremony, then.” John says, and I smile at myself in the mirror.

“Not if I see you first.” I respond, and he chuckles as he walks towards the kitchen, down the stairs. Soon Mike will be here, and he’ll drive me to the park, where our guests are already waiting. Within an hour, I will be William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, husband to John Hamish Watson-Holmes.

How lucky we are, him and I, to have run into each other, perfect strangers, that we get to spend our lives together.

How lucky we are, to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely chats we had in the comments.  
> Also, I have Twitter now @StrangeJohnlock. Come say hi😊


	9. Forever I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to _S_IRIS_ on twitter for beta reading this one. Thank you for putting this much time and effort into this chapter and adding a few cute little scenes to it :)

  
Forever is a word I rarely use, not only because it is an incomprehensible, unquantifiable concept, but because it is used so often it loses all meaning, and by people with barely enough brain cells to know how long thirty seconds are.

  
Still, it is the only word I can use to describe the car ride from Baker Street to Kew Gardens, where we will be married in front of the smaller of the two Victorian glasshouses. I deduce my nervousness the speed with which my index finger drums against my thigh The houses on each side of the road pass me by at the rate of an inch per minute. 11:46:13, my watch says, as I check it for the seventeenth time. I will be John Watson’s husband in less than thirty minutes, the ceremony beginning in less than fifteen.

  
Mike, thankfully, doesn’t comment on my behaviour, even though I’m sure it is obvious to him. Instead, he smiles that smug smile he has had on his face ever since John and I told him we had decided to tie the knot. He is – and I cannot blame him- quite proud of the pivotal role he played in our relationship as the mutual friend being the man who introduced us, and John insisted he undertake the role of best man. I didn’t mind, since the only alternative would’ve been my brother, whom I didn’t want to invite at all. That he would be there was, again, John’s work.

  
I tear my gaze away from Mike to look out of the window again, my head buzzing with a restlessness enough to rival the ennui I usually encounter after the successful conclusion of a case. My attempts to distract myself by deducing pedestrians fail to keep me from jumping out of my skin; the details I glean about their lives are far too placid and commonplace to keep me occupied for long. At yet another traffic light, I finally have enough. Throwing the car door open, I hurry onto the pathway. I hear Mike yell my name, but I don’t respond. I can imagine the look of surprise and concern on his face but it doesn’t matter. Can’t depend on him to get me where I need to be, can’t trust the traffic to get better. I feel myself break into a half-sprint, matching my gait to the thump of my drumming heart. Legs carry me in a blur of sirens, magenta, and the drizzle of rain as I change my planned route twice. No fire ladders or climbing fences; don’t want to risk any stains or tears to my suit.

  
Finally, after what seems forever, I reach the main entrance, a bit out of breath, and I brush away a wayward curl. I feel sweaty, more than I should be after only a few hundred meters, but my nervousness might have played a bigger part than I can admit to myself at the moment. But now that I have reached the location that John and I will get married in, all nervousness has vanished and only a frisson of pure excitement remains. Today will make the gardens special to both of us forever and the thought makes me smile like a lunatic- at least that seems to be the opinion of the elderly lady walking past me at that moment. And she’s lucky because not only do I not care today, I am also not in the mood to spit deductions at her. I straighten myself, tug at my jacket to pull it in place, and take a deep breath, before entering the park. Must be presentable for John.

  
It’s not too far from the glasshouse, which is located by one of the large ponds. The water glistens with the twinkling of the glass' reflection, distorting all matter in accordance with its own rules. I find that sort of wilfulness almost majestic; even if the glasshouse was made to house kings, the pond bent all to its will, regardless of stature and I find myself awed by it because I feel the same way, bent and surrendered to the inevitability of love.  
This is where I will get married to John, I think for what must be the thirtieth time today. This just makes it very real somehow, and it makes my breath hitch.

I tear my eyes from the building and let it wander further. Rows of white chairs have been placed on the stone terrace, and I can see just the spot at the edge of the pond, where I will say “Yes I do” to John Watson. My hands are sweaty again but I dare not wipe them against my suit and ruin it.

  
The first familiar face I spot is that of Molly Hooper. She is wearing another horrid dress, orange this time, and a large flower in her hair.

  
“Sherlock,” She takes a few steps towards me. “You’re here before John?”

  
“Quite obvious, isn’t it?” I retort, defensive. She doesn’t seem offended, and I wonder if a groom is allowed just anything on their wedding day; if getting married gives you such special leeway for just one day then maybe I should consider getting married every day. Molly just smiles, not the way she used to smile when she was still in love with me, and I pull her into a hug. She wraps an arm around me.

  
“I think someone is desperately trying to reach you.” She comments, and I retrieve my vibrating phone from my coat pocket.

  
“Well, my best man might think I bolted…” I admit. “Would you talk to him? Before he tries to reach John and makes him panic, too?”

  
She nods, then takes my phone to call Mike, taking a few steps away. I plan on listening in, but a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

  
“Oh, Sherlock. Don’t you look lovely!” Mummy makes her way over to me, crushing me with a hug. More and more guests arrive, all wanting hugs and with each outdoing the previous with more and more unimaginative compliments on my suit, I get more nervous. Perhaps, being stuck in a car would have been a better alternative to being out here in the open, with too many people around me, having to wait for John, who is very likely still stuck in that traffic jam. We had planned it like this, him being here first, so he could’ve dealt with all our guests, done the smiling and the hugging. Now, I have to suffer through that. I want John. I have been waiting for him forever, and I need him here, by my side, where he belongs.

  
It is again Molly, who catches onto my discomfort, so she ushers all the guests to find their seats, giving me a bit of space and I retreat a bit to stand by the water. The wind ripples the surface and I find myself fascinated by the way the light reflects off it as I try to bring a bit of order into the chaos of my thoughts and turmoil of emotions. I almost miss the water darkening as it catches the reflection of three men approaching. When I finally look up, I recognize them as my groom and our best men. My wait has come to an end. 

  
I have seen enough stupid movies with John Watson to know that if this were one, the way Mike, Lestrade, and John walk up to me would be shown in slow motion.  
I was wrong about his suit. He isn’t wearing black, or a blue shirt. Instead, his suit is charcoal and his shirt has the same burgundy colour as mine. It brings out his broad shoulders and sturdy legs perfectly and does wonders for his hips.

  
He takes my breath away, even after all these years and it surprises me to feel tears stinging my eyes. My intention to hold them back melts away the moment he spots me, his mouth pulling into the brightest of smiles. My vision blurs, and then he’s there, pulling me into a hug, resting our foreheads together.

  
I’m crying, I realise, and warm thumbs brush my tears away, John’s finger fingertips whispering, reassuring against my sensitive skin. I have, in the past, taken in the lines of John’s hands with my eyes, fingers, and tongue, sorted the weathered texture and the feel of each of them to the point where I could distinguish them from among dozens, if it ever became necessary, and somehow the contours of them calm me deeply. My tears stop, after a bit, and only then does John speak.  
“How is it, Sherlock Holmes, that you look even more beautiful than usual?” He whispers and the “sentiment” I give as an answer sounds less sarcastic than I had intended it to.

  
“Ready to walk down that aisle, then, gorgeous?” John asks, voice rough with emotion. Until this moment, I never understood what was so special about the bureaucratic act of getting a marriage licence. As is my treatment of sentimentality, I was blind to it until I actually had to encounter it. It is so very extraordinary. Every person who plays an important role in my life is here. There is no need for us to do this, but we have made the choice to do this, just for us. And it deserves to be special. That’s why we chose this location, these suits, these guests. That’s why we’ll have cake and a dance floor. And that’s why, at the end of the day, a car will be waiting for us to take us to our honeymoon destination: the cottage where I asked John to marry me.

  
John pulls back a bit and hooks his arm with mine. “Ready?”

  
I nod. The music starts playing – the fact that it is one of my favourite pieces does not help my overly sentimental state- and our guests stand. My knees feel wobbly, which is an entirely new feeling, but with John walking by my side, his shoulder nudging my upper arm from time to time, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

  
We come to stand by the water, Mike and Greg waiting next to the registrar, and I fix my eyes on John, knowing that if I even glance in Mrs. Hudson’s direction, I will break down. Her unwavering support of our relationship from the beginning means everything and I promise myself I’ll hug her and tell her just that if I happen to find a quiet moment later. I am, after all, a groom and allowed all that sentimental stuff today.

  
The registrar, a blonde woman in her forties, greets the wedding party. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, my focus always on John. His eyes seem even bluer, now that there are tears in them and he seems to be unable to stop smiling. I want to kiss that smile, to feel it against my lips as I melt into him. I am so fixated on my John’s face that I almost miss the registrar beginning her speech. Even as she continues to talk, I only register a few keywords and phrases, few but enough to tune her out just to enjoy the sight of John’s radiant smile.

  
Friendship. Been through so much. Found each other. Love. Connection. Future.

  
The rest is sort of a blur as if what she says has nothing to do with me, one of the protagonists of this entire event. I can only tear away my gaze from John for a moment when she addresses me, and I realise my moment to repeat after her has arrived. Those famous words that had no meaning for me only a few years ago before I met John now mean the world to me.

  
“Yes, I do.” My voice sounds strange in my ears, and I fix my gaze on John, on my husband, who is crying, now. My husband, those words echo inside me. I refrain from asking him if they are happy tears because, as much as I like our bickering, I am close to tears myself. My hands tremble but I manage to get the silver band onto John’s ring finger, bringing it to my lips and pressing a kiss where metal meets skin.

  
This is so very different from the moment we shared through the bedroom door, but just as emotional, even though it is not our own words. I have to wipe away tears when it is John’s turn, and he says them so enthusiastically that it garners a smattering of chuckles from the guests. He slips a ring onto my finger and the registrar finally says, “You may kiss” and I kiss my John, cupping his face in my hands, and there is applause and someone- Mrs. Hudson, probably- sobbing loudly. My mind goes almost blank, the only one occupying it being my husband and the thought that we will now spend our lives together in our version of forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, how would have guessed that this story wasn't quite over yet :P


	10. Forever II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my amazing beta reader <3 
> 
> This chapter has mentions of character death (not John or Sherlock)

  
The waves lap up the shore as they have for millions of years, and will for another eternity until the sun burns out. Not that I care much about things like that, the beginning and ends of worlds, planets, star signs, and the universe, not even after John started teasing me about it. All that matters is now. All that I care for is the tendril of seawater touching, kissing my John’s toe, John who, like a little child, couldn’t wait to kick his shoes off as soon as we had reached the beach and is now smiling happily. He has his jeans carelessly pushed up his calves, and the wind rumples up his silver hair the way I usually do.  
John gazes at me from over his shoulder as I stand at a distance, grateful that this is not a sandy beach. The pebbles crunch under my shoes as I make my way to my husband.

  
“Can you believe it?” John glances up at me, and his cerulean eyes make the ocean seem grey and colourless. His question is unclear, and while my brain is blissfully occupied with him, I can still guess the context. Entwining his fingers with mine, I turn to look back at our house, less than two hundred meters from where we are standing.

  
It's the place I asked John to marry me and therefore has remained special for us throughout the years. Over the last year, John turned the house into a home, just like he did with Baker Street: another hidden talent of his. So many of our belongings have accompanied us here from 221B. I never thought I'd leave that flat, but that changed after Mrs. Hudson passed away. The thought stings, still. I miss her every day, and it has nothing to do with morning tea or biscuits. Her loss has shaken us both, has made us aware of our ageing bodies, and had sealed the decision to leave London. It was a significant change, a difficult but necessary one to make, but with John by my side, even the toughest challenges just seem to fall into place.

  
We are still adjusting to the quiet and the calm. It isn't easy; both of us struggle with the routine and the lack of excitement and adrenaline. But we've found new things to do. Building a functioning beehive and taking care of the swarm occupies me for quite a large portion of the day, and John is working on honing his writing skills now that he isn’t wasting away at the surgery anymore.

  
So yes, I can believe it. I can believe we’ll spend the rest of our lives here at this place where the murmuring ocean is a constant companion and the wind sings us to sleep every night. I want those morning walks and evenings on the sofa as much as the trips back to London for those above-eight cases and the nights hunched over my microscope, before crawling into bed and melting into John’s warmth. I believe that my bees and his books will keep us content, even though they are far from the murder and mayhem of the city. And on those days when they don’t seem enough, John will be at my side to occupy my brain – and not only in that way, thank you very much.

  
I find John's gaze grow quizzical — I have obviously been quiet for too long — but his eyes still retain the optimistic glow I love so unabashedly. An irrational idea seizes me and I find myself kicking my shoes off along with my socks and fumble with rolling up my trousers. The ground is cold, and I can feel the round pebbles against the soles of my feet. The water glides over my toes, and I curl them to feel the texture of the small stones. It feels nice, I must admit. I have to reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear only for the wind to get it loose again.  
“Us, being here?” I ask unnecessarily.

  
“Oh, yes, that too,” John smiles up at me, and I get distracted by the laugh lines around his mouth. They are deeper and numerous now than they were when I first met him, and he tries to hide them behind a full beard now - he does look very sexy in one, or else I would have convinced him to shave. He doesn’t like getting older. He has taken up running and even works out in those track pants that flatter his figure so well (and I’m sure I’ll get a halfhearted smacking if I ever mention that to him). For my part, I love that I get to watch him grow older. It means that with all of our adventures, he never got hurt – not fatally – and that he has never gotten annoyed with me enough to leave me. That we still love each other. Not everyone gets that privilege.

  
“I meant us. It’s been twenty bloody years since we kissed for the first time,” John steps closer, and I lean down to kiss him. Two decades of kissing. Our kisses might have grown less passionate than in the first view months of dating, but they are still special, a shared intimacy that is just for us, my John and I. They are rituals – kisses good morning and good night, hello and goodbye, but so much more. Wordless I-love-yous and I-want-yous, sorrys and you’re-welcomes. And they happen, sometimes, without any real reason, just because we want to.

  
I cannot imagine not wanting to press my lips against John’s, to feel them warm and soft under my own, as they are now. John always has to pull me down a bit, his perfect hands grabbing the lapels of my coat and nuzzling our noses together. My husband surprises me, as I feel the press of his teeth tug at my lower lip, turning what I thought would be a series of closed-mouthed kisses into something deeper with tongues and teeth and hands pulling at hair involved. Lovely. It makes my skin tingle and my heart race.

  
“Twenty bloody years,” John whispers as he pulls back, our noses resting against each other.

  
“And you still haven’t tried to kill me,” I quip, eyes fluttering open to catch his grin. He doesn’t disappoint, eyes glinting with amusement. Bluest of blues, especially intense against his now-tanned skin.

  
“Well, not for lack of reasons,” John says, nibbling at my chin. In revenge, I stab my finger into that incredibly ticklish place in his ribs. Another advantage of having shared two decades together: I have learned all these things about John. He breathes a laugh, flinches away and I lift my hands in a peace offering.

  
“What reasons?” I ask, after a few more kisses.

  
“Oh, where should I start…? The experiments that tend to risk both our health or the integrity of our home. Being woken up at ungodly hours at least twice a week. You …”

  
“Yes, I understand. What stops you, then?” I interrupt him, chuckling.

  
“Mostly the fact that you are very sexy,” John grins against my lips. And I want to argue. I want to tell him that I have wrinkles now. That my hair is white and my body is shrinking together. But I know he has aged too and pointing out the signs of my ageing that would make him think he is not attractive to me anymore – the opposite being true – so I bite back my comment.

  
“Hmm, the only reason you married me, anyway,” I say.

  
“Exactly.” He presses his lips to the corner of my mouth, and I turn my head to get a kiss he doesn’t deserve.

  
“Am I greedy for wanting twenty more?” John asks, as he rests his head against my shoulder and I pull him into a hug, wrapping my arms around him.

  
“You could ask for forever, and I’d never find you greedy,” I whisper into his hair, squeezing his shoulder, and I feel him rub his nose against my neck. I know what his silent answers mean; have learned them all over the years. If I were to pull back a bit to gaze at his face, I’d find his eyes a bit wet, touched by what he thinks is me being romantic.

  
I kiss his hair, bury my nose in it to be surrounded by his scent. My eyes find the ocean, and I take in his seeming endlessness. Its waves will crash against these shores for a long time after we are gone. And I will love John Watson as long as my heart beats. I whisper that into his ear – too old to care about being perceived as romantic. He shudders against me, holds me closer.

  
And when we return that night, old men into that new home, we are both filled with that want for a future, for a forever, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write. I hope I can do an equally long story soon, I need the fluff :)

**Author's Note:**

> A comment would be lovely😊


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